


What We Are

by significantowl



Category: Merlin (BBC)
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-08-07
Updated: 2010-08-07
Packaged: 2017-10-11 00:30:58
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,709
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/106252
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/significantowl/pseuds/significantowl
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>If it's the future she hears, it's not sharing any secrets with him.</p>
            </blockquote>





	What We Are

**Author's Note:**

> Set post-s1, spoilers for _Le Morte d'Arthur_.

It begins with the Isle of the Blessed. Merlin may be a priest now, and he may not; he does not claim the Old Religion, but it claims him, and he's not sure who will end up being the stronger. Early days, yet. He should probably be worried about going back to Camelot with so much uncertain, but there is no point, as there is no choice in it. It is a matter in every way decided - head, hopes, heart.

The dragon knows, Merlin can tell that from miles away. It knows, it's not happy, and it won't shut up about it. But Merlin doesn't care; perhaps it's even good, because each and every little crystal of fear inside him, every glinting doubt, turns to anger when he thinks of the dragon. Hard, opaque. The dragon and Nimueh, two of a kind, they were what they are and are what they were, and when Merlin needs to know himself, know what he and his power will be, he can just think: I am not that.

So no. The dragon is easy, now. The dragon is not the problem.

That's Morgana.

 

It's barely a day before she comes to Gaius's chambers and sits at the rough table beside Merlin's mother, who is sipping soup and looking worn but well. Morgana speaks with his mother, asks after her health, her village, and the whole time Merlin is convinced that she is not listening to a word his mother says, but that she is listening to something else entirely.

Could be the dragon, but probably not. Morgana's _here_, and he doubts that's coincidence.

But if it's something he's doing, Merlin doesn't know what or how, which makes it kind of hard to stop. And if and if it's something Merlin _is_, then there's not much he can do about it. There's the whole thing in a nutshell - he is the magic and so what _is_ he? - and Merlin shuffles, shuffles his feet towards the door. Distance.

Morgana looks up, says, "Tell Arthur I will dine with him tonight," and Merlin nods, flees.

Not that he'll get away.

It's a strange meal. Merlin is certain that Arthur thinks Morgana is there out of pity for him, because she believes him too tired yet to sit through long dinners with the court. Merlin is also certain that Arthur is suffering this with something close to grace because he can see what recent nights and days have been like for Morgana - it's written in every line of Gwen's weary face - and believes this above all a benefit to her.

Which it is, of course, but in ways he must not guess.

Morgana organises matters so that it is Merlin who stands at her right hand, attending to her wishes, and Gwen at Arthur's. It's easy for her - one half-voiced comment from Arthur on Merlin's clumsy service, and with a look and a few words she has Merlin where she wants him. So easy, but Merlin sees it for skill, and not for the first time it takes his breath away.

As they eat, she accidentally bumps Merlin with her shoulder three times, hands him her goblet with slipping, questing fingers four, and when she is ready to leave, when he pulls back her chair, turns to him for a long moment that runs into two.

She calls him perfect. Tells Arthur that he doesn't know what he has. Says _thank you_.

 

Training fields, stables, corridors, Gaius's rooms - Merlin soon runs out of places where he and Arthur _haven't_ just happened to find themselves in the company of Gwen and Morgana.

Merlin wonders what she's listening to. At night, when it's quiet and still, he burrows down under his pillow and blanket, but all he can hear is the sigh of his breath and the thump of his heart. If it's the future she hears, it's not sharing any secrets with him.

Morgana doesn't touch him when anyone but Gwen and Arthur can see, but she _does_ touch him nearly every chance she gets. He is beginning to know the particular shape and press of her fingertips by heart; Merlin thinks he can almost feel her by thinking about it now, feel her when she's on the other side of the room.

It takes very little time for Gwen to begin to see, and, surprisingly, less than Merlin would have thought for Arthur. There's something too close to knowing in Gwen's look, and a bit lost in Arthur's, and there may be something like envy floating in the air but it's very hard to pin down.

And Merlin learns - Merlin learns really quickly - that he doesn't like any of that, would rather not see it, but maybe he needs to, maybe more than anything.

Because what he feels when Morgana's fingers dance on his wrist, circle his arm, and one time, most boldly of all, trail along the back of his neck - what he feels is _good._

 

Merlin spends a few weeks fighting a war with himself, and for the most part winning.

He doesn't go anywhere alone. That is his victory. Well, for the most part he doesn't, but on those occasions when he does slip through the castle alone, wanting just a little bit, Morgana doesn't appear. Perhaps it's his luck; more likely she intends, in the end, to make him come to her.

Gaius has been trying to teach him fear all along, and Merlin is very much learning it, at the same time as he's memorising the exact length of Morgana's fingers, the smooth hard curve of her nails.

 

"The Lady Morgana no longer wishes me to prepare her sleeping draught," Gaius announces one grey morning. He follows that with a look that clearly adds, _What have you _done_, Merlin?_ It is not a happy look.

It hits Merlin like a punch to the gut then, makes him feel sick. The physician, angry because his patient no longer needs her medicine - it is _wrong_, and it has always been wrong, and he has always known it.

"I have to go," Merlin says before he runs.

 

In the stairwell, shadows shift like the clouds outside, and he's pressed between Morgana and the wall, the stone griffin a silent witness. Merlin lets her shining hair curtain his face - it smells like sweet things, growing things - and breathes at her ear. Her chest to his chest, her hips to his hips, they fit together not like two sides of anything, but like a lock and a key.

Which is which, which _will_ be which - right now Merlin's brain is past these kinds of judgments.

The fabric of Morgana's gown is the softest, sleekest thing Merlin's ever felt; he clutches at it, feels it bunch in his hands, presses his knuckles to the small of her back. She shifts her weight and everything _slides_, slow and shattering, and Merlin's eyes fall closed and he holds on.

The problem is this: Merlin still cannot look at Morgana without seeing her and Uther together, on a windy day at a grave in the sunlight. The problem is that they think too much alike, and he cannot see her ever being the first to say _stop_.

Merlin knows he will go very, very far when pushed, can thank Nimueh for that, a lesson well-learnt. And Morgana will never even need to push. No such inelegant pressure.

"We can't," he whispers, lips moving against her skin, hips rocking into hers. He is actively willing himself not too kiss her, not to nip at that perfect mouth, and it's about all the will he can manage.

Her laugh is soundless, a puff of air against his cheek. "Afraid someone will catch us?"

"No," he says, honest. There are lies too thick on the ground already, and no such thing as an easy road out. "I know you'd hear them coming."

This time Morgana laughs out loud, and licks at the corner of his mouth, a tiny taste that sends Merlin shivering all down his spine. "But would I tell you? I'm angry with you, surely you know that."

"Yes." Yes he knows, and yes she would. "And - if I can just say" - _If_ is right. Conversation is getting difficult, thinking in straight lines is getting difficult - "you're kind of great at revenge." They're still rocking together, it's _very_ great, and somewhere between short, shallow breaths he's convincing himself that it's all right, because they're still dressed, still separated by coarse wool and smooth silk.

She laughs again, delighted, and slips those fingers he knows by heart under his scarf, to rest where the blood beats in his neck. "But it's not. You're the one who believes there are things we cannot do."

Merlin is wordless, mouthing at her cheek, wet and desperate. He doesn't know if it's his future or his fear he hears in the pounding of blood, his pulse and Morgana's, pressed together at her thumb. His hands have slid down low, he's lifting, grinding; they're bleeding heat, bleeding power and if this is what _can't_ feels like then one day he and Morgana will hold the world in their hands.

Nimueh had offered him something like that, but with Nimueh that danger had never been real.

"Mustn't." Merlin gets the word out. "Mustn't, not can't."

"No-one can stop us," Morgana says in a voice thick with pleasure.

"Exactly." Merlin pulls his head back, forces his eyes open. Morgana's are wide and dark, green-rimmed black, calm burning; he can only guess what his must be. "Our choice."

Her body stills, and Merlin can't silence a deep, quiet groan at the sudden loss. "All right," Morgana says, and he's stopping as well, the best he can, shivering, aching, twitching. "But what if..." She pauses, just to make him wait, he thinks. "What if I heard someone coming? No, Merlin, not _now_," she adds, half-laughing, when he tries to look past her shoulder.

"Arthur?"

She just smiles, red lips curving.

"Gwen?"

And smiles again, and Merlin doesn't know who started moving first, or when, but it was probably him; they're rutting hard, twisting, feeling, and Merlin's still wary of kissing her but he lets his smile touch hers, for a while.


End file.
